


The Holiday

by InFlagranteDestiel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Grief, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 20:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10647375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InFlagranteDestiel/pseuds/InFlagranteDestiel
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, as the wizarding world attends memorials and puts itself back together, Minerva McGonagall finds herself wilting under the weight of recent events. Her friends suggest a holiday, and she remembers her last holiday: 1981, Italy, after Voldemort's first defeat. In a week of relaxation, her New Year's takes an unexpected turn with the beautiful niece of a hotelier. Amid grief and sumptuous luxury, she lets go something precious.





	The Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> First order of business: I'm A Mur'can, so excuse any West Coast turns of phrases, spelling, etc. I did my best. 
> 
> Second: This turned into more of a character study of McGonagall than I anticipated. I like that about it, but if you want Fifty Shades of Minerva, that won't happen.
> 
> Third: Most of my information about McGonagall comes from the books, but I also referenced some biographical information included on Pottermore.

June 1997

Almost immediately, everyone from _The Daily Prophet_ down to Colin Creevey was calling it ‘The Battle of Hogwarts.’ Minerva couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she found it insipid to the point of insult. Perhaps it was ‘the battle of.’ The phrase seemed to relegate it to the vast annals of history, to be discussed alongside the Goblin Wars. It was too final, too soon, even as the wounded still convalesced in the hospital wing or at St. Mungo’s. Even as funerals and memorials were still happening.

She was shocked to find that the hardest memorial of all was Fred Weasley’s. That boy and his twin had blighted her for six and three-quarters years. Many a peaceful summer night had been ruined as she woke drenched in cold sweat from nightmares of pranks gone morbidly awry.

But of course, she wouldn’t shun his memorial. She went to as many as she could, and his was a first priority.

She Apparated at the Burrow nearly three hours early. That was, of course, not to pay her respects, but to help poor Molly. The woman was plowing along as best she could – after all, she still had Ron and Ginny to care for, even if they both thought themselves far beyond the need of adult supervision. But she was wound up and spun round like one of Arthur’s Muggle toys.

Even that early, the Burrow buzzed with activity. A mountain of flowers rested alongside the shed, and Granger was trying to wrangle a massive canopy in place for the mourners. Bill and Charlie aided her, and for a brief moment Minerva thought it rather crass that Potter and the youngest Weasley brother were nowhere to be seen. But then, she looked up and saw in a high window that they both sat up there with George. Weak laughter and noise filtered down, the strange muted impressions of people still in shock and mourning.

Inside the house, Fleur Delaceour-Weasley was trying to help and failing miserably. Molly was criticising her sandwich making skills so savagely that the poor girl was near to tears. Minerva swooped over and gently touched her shoulder.

‘There are absolute bushels of flowers outside. Why don’t you go see where Miss Granger would like them arranged? There’s a good girl, now.’

Fleur looked grateful enough to hug Minerva, which she did not want, so she picked up a massive earthenware bowl and held it in both arms. Fleur smiled awkwardly and nodded.

‘Oh, hello Minerva,’ Molly said as though she had just noticed her.

Some of the fullness had left her face. It showed her age and her sorrow all too sharply.

‘Molly—’ She could hardly ask how she was holding up, so she settled on, ‘How can I help?’

‘So good to have a proper English witch in here. Fleur can’t do up a sandwich platter worth a house elf’s cuss.’

‘I’m Scottish,’ Minerva gently reminded Molly.

‘Of course, of course,’ she said, sorting through the admittedly messy job Fleur had made of the sandwiches. ‘Still, you know what I mean.’

Minerva rather didn’t, unable to see what nationality had to do with sandwiches, but she wasn’t about to argue.

‘I was never any great shakes at domestic spells, but I quite think I can handle a sandwich platter.’

She cast a few simple charms to slice, assemble, and arrange the sandwiches. All in all, it didn’t look half bad, and Molly said nothing, which Minerva could only count as a victory.

Sounds of setting up, arguing, negotiation, and arranging filtered in. Granger was conducting the whole affair in a most Granger-like fashion, which clashed slightly with Bill and Charlie’s more easygoing natures.

‘He’d have loved this, you know?’ Molly said, of a sudden. ‘A big party, just for him. If it wasn’t second- or third-hand, it was having a twin. He never had a singular thing to himself in his life. Oh, he loved George, loved being a twin. But I know – he’d have liked just one thing that was about him, and him alone. Mothers know these things,’ she said.

‘Of course they do.’ Or so she had been told. Dealing with other people’s children had been quite enough for her, and that ship had sailed – or not sailed, as the case may be. Regret had yet to set in, at least on that topic.

Time wore on, and more people began arriving. Many of them brought food, which soon became so abundant that it needed to be transferred outside. Granger looked ever-so-slightly dismayed as Minerva and Molly traipsed out with a magicked train of food held aloft between them.

‘Oh – my – well, goodness,’ Granger stammered. ‘Hello, Professor.’

‘Hello, Miss Granger. The pavilion looks lovely.’

‘Thank you. Well, I reckon we can set all this on a back table. Wouldn’t do to have everyone inside in the kitchen once the services are over. No, it wouldn’t do at all,’ she murmured to herself.

‘Go freshen up, Miss Granger. We can settle this one.’

Her hair had expanded in the early summer humidity, and she smiled rather gratefully.

Minerva and Molly managed to maneuver the bounty to a back table. Minerva finished a delicate charm that repelled insects and cast a pleasing purple, gossamer veil over the whole lot. It looked rather pretty, as far as funereal spreads could go.

‘You go freshen up, yourself,’ she said to Molly.

‘I can’t possibly – there are programs and things—’

‘Nonsense, Mum,’ Ron said. ‘Harry and I’ll get those. Go put on those nice robes George got for you.’

Such a change. He was hardly the boy who had left school, hardly the sidekick anymore. He was a man alongside his brothers, older and tired beyond his years. An impish glint still lurked about in his eyes, hopefully to be resurrected when all this settled. Potter, too, was similarly aged and subdued. There were many that didn’t feel much sorrow for The Boy Who Lived. She had heard more than one person muttering round Hogsmeade that some thought Potter had goaded You-Know-Who, ought to have let sleeping dragons lie. Minerva thought no such drivel, of course, though she had always wished he had minded himself a wee bit better at school. In any case, he let Ron take the lead as they passed out programs and helped people sit in the rickety wooden chairs under the canopy.

Really, one couldn’t ask for a finer day for such a task. The summer had come on strong and early, as though even English weather put aside its persnickety ways to celebrate this vanquishing of evil.

She accepted a program from Ron. ‘Are you doing quite all right?’

He looked startled, and she smiled a rare smile. ‘Oh, yeah, fine Professor. I mean, not fine – no, not that. Only, I guess I’m doing as good as you might suppose.’

‘That’s the best as can be asked for,’ she said. ‘I know your mother appreciates your help.’

He blushed a deep crimson. ‘It’s nothing. Not like I had grand plans for the holidays, did I? Hell, I thought I’d be dead myself—’ He stopped short. ‘Merlin’s beard, I am sorry, Professor.’

‘Not at all, Mr. Weasley. Not at all.’

She walked off, found Poppy Pomfrey in the crowd.

‘Dear me, I don’t think I’ll draw a quarter of this when my time comes,’ Poppy said by way of greeting.

‘If I do, it’ll only be to make sure I’m dead,’ Minerva said.

Poppy batted her with her program. ‘Don’t you dare get me laughing.’

‘Ah, I quite think if there’s one of these that we go to, this is the one to crack bad jokes.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Flitwick squeaked. He leaned over and Minerva saw him for the first time, obscured as he had been.

‘Filius, how are you?’

‘Fine, quite all right,’ he said, nodding vacantly in such a way as to intimate that he was anything but. Minerva let the matter be.

Other Hogwarts staff was there. Pomona Sprout, of course. Sinistra. Hagrid, sopping wet with tears and straining his chair to the absolute limits.

The crowd, in fact, was impressive. It seemed every merchant from Diagon Alley was there, along with the staffs of both The Hog’s Head and The Three Broomsticks. Minerva recognized some of Bill Weasley’s dragon-chasing colleagues. A couple of goblins were even in attendance, furtive but meeting any stares with the customary beady gaze of their race.

At the front of the Pavilion stood a long table shrouded in white. Atop it were some of Fred’s innovations: joke wands, punching telescopes, and a few assorted sweets that Minerva hoped everyone knew to avoid. An ancient broomstick lay behind a picture of Fred. Clad in chartreuse robes that looked spectacularly awful, Fred winked from the frame, laughing at the last moment.

Above them, smokeless fireworks danced and tumbled in shades of deepest purple, scarlet, orange, gold, and emerald. George must have thoroughly exhausted himself with the display. It surpassed even their memorable flight from Hogwarts two years prior.

There had been a funeral before, of course, just after it happened. Minerva hadn’t gone; it was a small affair, only for family. This was just the memorial, as many more wanted to pay respects. They were happening all over the country, and Minerva had been to so many already.

The row up front was empty, waiting for the family and a few close friends. They began filing in with Molly and Arthur leading the way. Both looked worn and exhausted. The whole family did, really.

Finally, Ron entered last among the family, plus Lee Jordan, Oliver Wood, and naturally, Potter and Granger. As Ron sat, a flatulent rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’ rang out in the tent. A nervous ripple of laughter passed through the crowd.

He stood, pulling the bewitched Whoopee Cushion out from under him. Caught between anger and amusement, he held it up and gestured toward George, who sprang up from his seat with a sad smile.

‘Excellent segue, dear brother,’ he said. ‘Weasley Cushions – available this fall at our – at <i>my</i> \-- shop. Ten percent of all proceeds will go to the Fred Weasley Scholarship Fund, going to deserving youths with aspirations of greatness, but not a lot of money.’ He paused and looked out on the crowd. ‘Dear me, I guess I have to say a bit more than that, don’t I? Well, what is there to say? Fred was the best twin a bloke could ask for. I mean, what if he’d turned out an apple-polishing miniature Percy? Or a loud-mouth like Ginny?’

‘He was plenty loud,’ Ginny noted.

George let out a shaking laugh. ‘Quite right, quite right. In any case, we both lucked out, I reckon. He was better at maths. The books at the shop will be a fright. We both did our share of – of taking the mickey as much as we could. Still, I don’t know about myself, but I can say of him that he was one of the best wizards I knew. The fireworks – he developed those.’ George pointed to the ceiling. ‘And I guess – I guess that was him, wasn’t it? Wanted everyone to have a good time, but not light anything on fire. At least not too badly. I never let on, but he pulled me back from the brink on a few terrible ideas. I mean, I wanted a joke wand that turned into a rifle. I thought it would go over well if we ever expanded into America. They love guns over there. But he said no, too dangerous. God, he’d pummel me flat if he knew I was telling you he found an idea dangerous, but it’s true. Anyhow, thank you all for being here. I know he’d have appreciated it.’

Minerva dabbed at her eyes, and looking down the row, noticed that the rest of the Hogwarts staff present were doing the same.

A few others rose to speak. Oliver Wood got up and talked about Fred’s abilities on the Quidditch pitch, his ability to strategize. Minerva had sort of forgotten that about him. He was a rather good Quidditch player. Maybe couldn’t have played for England, but he could keep astride a broom at hit a Bludger. Lee Jordan read a sonnet from the famed nonsense poet, Armandus Jabber. No one – Minerva included – seemed to have a clue as to the content of the poem, but Jordan had a nice enough voice and the poem was appropriately silly.

Arthur concluded the memorializing, and mercifully, he kept it short. Minerva was quite sure she wouldn’t have been able to bear a father’s rambling grief.

‘You’ve all been so superb these past few weeks. My family and I can’t thank you enough. This year has been incredibly hard and frightening. Really, the past few years have. We never thought You-Know-Who would dare – but he did, didn’t he? And so many of us paid the price. But he is gone now, due to the bravery of the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s Army, and witches and wizards all over Britain. The Goblins put up a hell of a resistance,’ he said with a nod to the Lilliputian delegation near the back. They nodded respectfully in turn. ‘And Fred – he just wanted people to have a laugh. Well, maybe not right at this moment, but in the future – because of his bravery, we can.’ He bobbed his head resolutely and pursed his lips. ‘In the spirit of that, thank you all, and do help us try to eat the refreshments in the back.’

The service concluded in a shuffle of chairs and cloaks, a murmur of voices. No one applauded, which was both spooky and entirely appropriate, all things considered. A quick flick of magic from Granger, Potter, and the eldest Weasleys, and the tent was outfitted with tables. Chairs zoomed around them in a reasonably orderly fashion. The crowd gathered around the food, a mountain of simple, home-cooked fare. It was delicious and comforting, the kind of thing one needs in such times. There was plenty of cheese throughout the lot. Minerva thought for a brief moment of abstaining from some of the richer offerings, but then she wondered why the hell she ought to do such a thing. Anyway, the preceding months had been so lean.

She sat down with the rest of the Hogwarts staff. They were unusually quiet and drawn, even Hagrid, though he occasionally trumpeted his nose into his massive spotted handkerchief.

‘I must have spent half their last year coming up with antidotes to their experiments,’ Poppy said. ‘I was rather impressed, if I’m honest. I’ve seen quite a lot in my days at Hogwarts. Takes a lot to stump me.’

‘Quite, quite,’ Flitwick said. ‘That bog during the Umbridge affair – it was something to behold.’

‘I feel like I ought not to encourage it, even – even now,’ Minerva said. ‘But I have to admit, he was a talented fellow.’

‘Professor, I always knew we were secretly among your favorites.’ George had seemingly sprouted up from behind her. She jumped in her seat and sent biscuit crumbs flying.

‘Mr. Weasley,’ she said. ‘Not kind to sneak up on an old woman like that.’

‘Well, if I see any old women around, I’ll take that under advisement.’ He pulled her hand up and kissed it before grabbing an empty chair and sitting down with them. ‘No, seriously, I’m quite honored to see Hogwarts’ best staff here. Fred would have been chuffed.’

‘Of course we’re here,’ Pomona said.

‘It ain’t righ’,’ Hagrid wailed. ‘Took the best of us, that bastard did.’

Flitwick put a tiny hand on Hagrid’s massive paw. ‘He did indeed, Hagrid.’

Minerva felt a bit abashed by this display of emotion, but expected nothing more or less from Hagrid, bless his earnest soul. She smiled wanly at George, who to his credit seemed to take it in stride.

‘Yeah, well, success is the best revenge, innit?’

He rose, went to Hagrid, and patted him on the shoulder before excusing himself to make the rounds.

The crowd thinned in due time, and Minerva could see Arthur and Molly looking around expectantly, waiting to have this over with. She said as much to the table, who readily agreed. As one, in a swoop of black robes, they went to the Weasley family, standing together with Granger, Potter, and Fleur.

‘Professor, I can’t thank you enough for your help today,’ Molly said.

‘Not at all, dear, not at all. I knew you’d be – well – quite overrun.’

‘Indeed.’

They said their good-byes, all of them, with promises of visits and owls and keeping in touch. It was all rather final in ways Minerva had rarely ever felt. Granger was sure to go on to great things, and Potter too. Ron – who could tell? But the rest of the Weasleys had done all right. He wasn’t terrible at maths – perhaps he could do the books at the shop. She wanted all the best for them, for these maddening children who had caused her so much frustration and heartbreak. It caught up to her then, and her throat scratched with emotion while her eyes welled up.

‘Time to be off,’ she whispered.

They departed, all of them headed back to the only place they knew – Hogwarts. The place was still a shambles, though nearly everyone capable of doing repairs had been dispatched. She herself had been working on some tricky bits of magic to repair the various shields and charms that kept it from Muggle view, plus a few of her own invention to serve as wards against other disasters the likes of which she never thought she’d see in a school.

They Apparated from the garden at the Burrow to the castle gates, all of them gripping tight to Hagrid, who couldn’t do it on his own.

Immediately upon arrival, Hagrid excused himself off to the Hog’s Head.

‘Perhaps a spot of sherry in my rooms?’ Poppy asked the rest of them.

‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Flitwick said, yawning so deeply he nearly toppled over.

‘Nor I,’ said Sinistra.

They alighted for the castle while the remaining teachers stood, unsure where to go.

‘Us three, then?’

‘Why not?’ Pomona said. ‘Eat, drink, be merry, and all that.’

‘A bit dark for you, isn’t it?’ Poppy asked as they made their way up the path to the building.

‘I suppose so, but gracious me – I just went to a memorial for a student. I’m feeling a bit dark.’

‘Yes, well,’ Poppy said.

Minerva couldn’t help but resent the lovely weather, suddenly. How dare the moon shine so high and bright? How dare the clouds stay away? The best of three generations had been struck down over the past two years, and never mind the ones that had gone the last time.

‘Well, you’ll be Headmistress next year,’ Poppy was saying.

‘Don’t think that means you’ll get a raise just because we’ve known each other since the dawn of time.’

‘No one would ever accuse you of playing favorites. If the Muggle queen ever came to dine, you’d have her sitting at the staff table,’ Pomona chimed in.

‘And why wouldn’t I? It offers a lovely view of the Great Hall.’

The three of them giggled like students, but the momentary levity crashed down upon them as they neared the building – their home.

‘It’ll be back to its old self soon enough,’ Pomona said.

‘Of course it will,’ Poppy said.

‘You know, it almost burned down in the twelfth century,’ Minerva said.

‘What?’

‘It didn’t!’

‘Aye, it did. Honestly, haven’t you two read <i>Hogwarts, a History</i>?’

‘To be frank, no,’ Poppy said, ‘but I have read <i>Magical Maladies and Miraculous Ministrations</i> three times, so that ought to make up for it.’

Minerva clucked her tongue. ‘You really ought to. Fascinating stuff. Anyway, in the twelfth century, a cooking fire got out of hand in the kitchens. Of course, the house-elves panicked something awful, and one of them ran through the place with his wee kitchen towel on fire. A tapestry went up, a painting, a student – rather unfortunate. That’s when they moved the kitchens underground, you see. They’d been in a shoddily constructed addition along the south wing.’

‘Wouldn’t that be more dangerous?’

‘Well, for the house-elves, yes. But there was an exit that led out of doors and the hallway guaranteed no one could bring it readily into the castle proper. Or so their reasoning was. Dippet put extra enchantments on it to ensure safety.’

‘How kind,’ Poppy said wryly.

‘Well, I certainly need a spot of sherry after that grim history lesson, Minerva.’

‘Quite. I am sorry,’ she said.

Poppy led them up to her rooms off the hospital wing. A few students were still lying in, though it had been weeks since the battle. The three women crept through in silence, barely daring their shoes to click on the rough stone floor.

Poppy poured them each a small sherry, and they settled in on the sofa and chairs arranged at the far end of the room. It was a comfortable sitting room, Minerva thought, so much unlike the orderly environment of the hospital wing. The chairs and sofa were of soft blue velvet, with a walnut wood table in the middle. Books lined one wall, and a small writing desk was crammed among the shelves.

They talked of silly things amongst themselves, former colleagues and students, news from <i>The Daily Prophet</i> unrelated to the recent calamities, plans for the future. It was a brief respite from decision-making and caring for people and all the other things the three of them had been called upon to do over the past weeks.

‘We ought to take holidays,’ Poppy said resolutely after her third sherry.

‘Hear, hear,’ Pomona agreed.

‘We couldn’t all go at the same time!’ Minerva was aghast. ‘The place would fall apart – quite literally.’

‘Of course not,’ Pomona said, ‘but individually. And you ought to go first.’

‘I couldn’t possibly!’

‘You could, and you should,’ Poppy said. ‘Just a couple weeks somewhere. Get away from all this – all this—’

‘Death,’ Pomona supplied.

‘Yes. Death. Destruction. No one would begrudge it.’

‘We’ve got to hire new teachers, and put the school to rights again, and get ready for—’

‘My dear Minerva,’ Poppy said, setting her sherry glass down and putting her hand on Minerva’s knee, ‘it is the end of June. Those decisions can wait. I know I’ve had a couple nips of sherry, but I’m hardly cut loose from my faculties. You need a holiday.’

‘Yes, perhaps I do,’ Minerva said, looking down into her glass.

Pomona yawned. ‘Let’s figure out a rota and see if anyone else needs some time off. Any of us can handle the Ministry as needed, could we not?’

‘I quite agree,’ Poppy said, collecting their glasses.

They bade one another goodnight and Minerva departed to her quarters while Pomona to hers.

Minerva had to cross much of the castle to get to her destination, and along the way, she saw signs of destruction wherever she went. The masonry was mostly intact, but it seemed somehow vulnerable. There had been more than mortar holding the place together. It was protected by magic – old magic, from some of the most powerful and innovative witches and wizards in history. So many spells died with their creators or through other means. They fell out of fashion, records were lost. Of course, they had a strong community at present. The living generations had plenty of power and innovation among them. They’d be able to restore some of the magic, at least.

Minerva reached her room, and first shed her shoes. Her feet and back ached after such a long day.

She changed from her regular robes to a simple nightgown and brushed her hair. She did all the normal things that she did of an evening to prepare for bed. All the while, she thought back to the last time she had a proper holiday.

December 1981

Things had mostly settled back to normal after You-Know-Who was defeated. They didn’t know then that he would return, and Britain’s witches and wizards were throwing themselves into rebuilding the community. Hogwarts was at full capacity, noisy and filled with children.

Christmas, then, came with feelings of relief. It was, truly, a joyous Christmas that even touched Minerva. Every inch of Hogwarts sparkled with lights. The smell of pine and cinnamon wafted into every classroom. She even allowed some of her students to have a small tea party after they successfully transfigured wooden blocks into teacups.

Through it all, she felt Dougal McGregor’s loss all too keenly. They had hardly spoken since he proposed in that field, and looking back, she had more than a few regrets about her answer. Plenty of half-blood and Muggleborn students came into the school, children whose parents knew of one another’s natures. But of course, these were more progressive times. She hoped that in whatever afterlife existed, Dougal was able to look down and see her laugh with her students or cheer Gryffindor on at the last Quidditch match before the holidays.

But of course, the children and most of the staff went home. The castle was near empty, and as far as she knew, it was only her and Albus left. They ate a modest holiday meal together in a corner of the Great Hall, and it wasn’t terrible, though her heart remained heavy. The next day, he found her at the window in the Hall, staring aimlessly out onto the snow-dusted grounds.

‘Aren’t you going to visit your brothers?’ he asked gently.

‘No, I – I don’t think so.’

‘And why not?’

She thought a while, ran her fingers over the garlands hung by the window. ‘I don’t know, really. I thought I’d wait until Easter holidays. It’s so much more fun seeing family when daffodils bloom.’

‘Well-said, my dear. You really ought to get out of this dreary country, though.’

‘Trying to drive me away?’

‘Hardly. Only, I want you to enjoy your holidays. I know you’ve lost someone important.’

Damn Albus and his keen memories. Of course he knew she had once loved a Muggle, and that Death Eaters had killed that very Muggle. It was quite by chance, of course. They weren’t targeting anyone in particular, merely wreaking havoc. He was nothing to them.

She nodded her head, knowing that if she spoke, the tears would come.

‘Have you ever been to Italy?’

‘Why, no,’ she said, surprised and thinking this was a famous Dumbledore non-sequitur.

‘Well, it’s time you go then. There’s a resort there, run by a charming Italian wizard named Vincenzo. The weather will be lovely, and Vincenzo does an extravagant New Year’s party.’

‘It sounds grand, but won’t it be booked up on such short notice?’

He chuckled. ‘Vincenzo is one of the most talented wizards I have ever known at making something out of nothing. Even if he is booked, I can assure you, there will be room.’

He took her by the arm and led her to the stairs that would bear them to his office. ‘Buttery shortbread biscuit,’ he said to the stone phoenix, which obliged by sliding out of the way.

Up, up, up, and Minerva felt quite astonished at this development. Whether she went to this resort or not, she had indeed forgotten her sorrow for a moment.

She stood in his office while Albus penned a short note and sent it off with no less than Fawkes himself. The bird departed with an affectionate nip to Albus’ ear and a quick song that sounded a bit like ‘Silver Bells,’ if Minerva wasn’t mistaken.

‘Albus, I don’t know what to say.’

‘Say ‘thank you’ and have a good time. I’ve let Vincenzo know to put up a good room for you, something that overlooks the sea.’

‘The sea,’ she said wistfully.

‘Happy Christmas, Minerva.’

‘Happy Christmas to you, too, Albus.’

Her ebullience faded slightly as she walked back to her room, ready to pack. She had so much to do. And it would take a day to get there and a day back. International Floo would be a mess. There was only one Floo from London to Paris, and from there, how could she be sure? Her French was so rusty.

But then she realised that regardless, it would be an adventure. She hadn’t had one of those in a good long while. Perhaps Albus was right, and she did need a holiday.

It was settled, then. She packed a trunk, used a Shrinking Charm, plopped it in her handbag, and set off to Hogsmeade, where she could Apparate directly to The Leaky Cauldron.

***

After hours of waiting and several dizzying Floo rides, she arrived in the small seaside town that Albus had instructed her to go to. She tumbled out of the fireplace and dusted herself off. The tavern into which she had been deposited was an Italian version of The Leaky Cauldron. It was derelict and worn down, with a burnished wooden bar and tables that appeared to be held together with Spellotape.

‘Buon giorno, Signora,’ the barman said.

‘Buon giorno,’ she returned. ‘English?’

‘Ah, yes, I speak a little. England, eh?’ He poured a jigger of some kind of liqueur, a dazzling deep auburn colour, and pushed it toward the edge of the bar. ‘My compliments, Signora. You have had, how you say? A spot of bother in England, si?’

‘A spot of bother, yes,’ she agreed. She hadn’t the faintest clue what the drink before her was, but it smelled heavenly, like roasted hazelnuts. She took it, and it warmed her instantly. ‘Heavens, that is good.’

‘Welcome to Italy, Signora.’

‘Grazi?’

‘Grazi! Hey, we have you speaking Italian by New Year’s!’

‘I’m clever,’ she conceded, ‘but not that clever.’

And then the most attractive man she had ever seen walked into the tavern. He was outlandishly stunning. Dressed in black trousers with a matching waistcoat and a button-down shirt the colour of freshly-churned butter, he had thick dark hair that swept his shoulders and a perfect olive complexion. He strode right up to her at the bar and she squeezed the glass in her hand so hard, she worried about breaking it. Her fingers clung to the glass in a sweaty film.

He nodded to the barman before turning to her. ‘Signora McGonagall?’

‘Professor,’ she corrected him. ‘Or – or – Minerva. Minerva, do call me that. It’s my name.’

He smiled at her, revealing dazzling white teeth. ‘Miner-r-r-va. Che bella! Anyhow, Vincenzo sends me to collect you. He tells me you know Albus Dumbledore.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘Good, very good. We’ll be on our way.’

‘Yes,’ she picked up her handbag, but he furrowed his gorgeous brows and held out a hand. She handed it to him and prayed he didn’t notice that her hands had left the handles sweaty.

‘You going to Vincenzo’s?’ the barman asked.

‘I reckon so.’

‘Lucky lady! Good to unwind after everything. Good place for it. The beach is – is—’ and he fired off a string of Italian that she didn’t understand, but his face and hand gestures indicated that it was a good thing.

‘Indeed? Well, thank you ever so much for the drink. Happy Christmas.’

She followed the gorgeous man out to a Muggle car. It was black, but she saw inside that the upholstery was a deep emerald green. He held the door for her, and she got in the backseat while he put her bag in the boot.

‘I’m Antonio,’ he said when he slid back into the front seat. ‘Head bellman at Vincenzo’s.’

‘Lovely. Very – I am so grateful.’

‘It is not a problem. I like when he sends me to fetch beautiful English witches.’

‘I’m Scottish,’ she whispered.

‘Even better.’ He winked, and she melted into the seat. ‘Hold onto your hat, beautiful Scottish witch.’

With that, he turned the car on and sped out onto the road. It had been a long while since she had ridden in a Muggle car, and the lurching sent her stomach into a gymnastics routine. Antonio drove like an absolute madman, taking corners at speed. And of course, the car was enchanted, so when they encountered a minor bottleneck of honking cars and beeping mopeds, she found them suddenly at the head of the line, speeding off into the distance. Luckily, that made the ride short, and before she knew it, they were pulling up in front of a modest little Art Deco hotel.

‘Welcome to Italia,’ he said, winking before he got out to open her car door.

She nearly died.

He took her bag and she followed him into the nondescript building. She supposed that, like other magical places, it was guarded from Muggle view. They’d see a tattered <i>pensione</i>, nothing worth staking out at all. Even as a witch, she thought it a little too rustic. But, she was there practically on Dumbledore’s orders, so she was determined to have a good time.

Really, she had underestimated the situation to a laughable degree. Antonio opened the door and revealed a world of splendor. The impossibly huge lobby was clearly too large to fit into the building’s façade, which was barely four stories high and as wide as an average row house. Enchanted to twice that, it bustled with witches and wizards of all ages, each of them glamorous and dressed in the most daring robes. Turquoise, magenta, plum, emerald – all colours of the rainbow and then some. A woman walked by wrapped in a robe of rose-coloured silk, with a slit all the way from her ankle to her thigh. A glittering headband with an ostrich feather reaching up to the heavens completed the picture. Minerva felt dowdy beyond reckoning in her black robes and tartan traveling cloak, and it took real effort to hide her self-consciousness.

Antonio took the lead and strode to the reception desk. He spoke in rapid Italian to the clerk there, a girl with thick, glossy hair tumbling down to her waist. She looked at Minerva kindly but curiously, and amid all the talk, Minerva heard the name ‘Dumbledore’ and the girl’s eyes lit up.

‘Si, si, the head of Hogwarts. Yes, he is a good friend to Vincenzo. Signora McGonagall, please, let us show you to your room.’

She checked Minerva in, explained the hotel’s amenities, and handed her a gilded ticket to the New Year’s Eve party. The lights of the lobby made it shine invitingly, and it seemed in and of itself nearly an enchanted object.

Vincenzo led her to an old-fashioned lift, the kind with the cage. The brass was polished to such a sheen that she saw her reflection, distorted, in the bars that clanged across the lift. Soon enough, the lift stopped, and Antonio led her down a long hallway richly carpeted in gold and mauve. At the end, he put her bag down reverently and handed her an ornate key.

‘Now, you need anything, you call me directly,’ he said.

‘Oh, I shouldn’t—’

‘Will be no bother. If I can’t come, I send my best guy up here.’

She blushed. ‘Honestly, a cup of tea and a book, and I’m happy as anything.’

He smiled that winning smile. ‘Maybe back in Scotland, but this is not Scotland.’

‘Quite.’

He winked at her and loped down the hallway. She couldn’t help, just for a moment, watching his retreat. Then she caught hold of herself and opened the heavy wooden door.

The room was small, but absolutely beautiful. There was a double bed piled high with a gold and emerald duvet and pillows that looked to be made from clouds. They, too, had coverings of deep gold. The carpet underfoot was thick, and she suddenly longed to take her shoes off. It had been such a long day, and it caught up with her as she took the room in.

But first – the window on the other side of the room. She found herself drawn to it as if by invisible thread. Once there, she flung it open and cool, sea air hit her face. It wasn’t the bracing air of Scotland in winter. Oh, no, it was rich and scented, cool not cold. The briny smell of salt and fish filtered in with the sounds down below of people enjoying evening cocktails. The moon hung high and full, bright as a spotlight. Along the coastline, small clusters of lights twinkled, marking that there were other people there.

The world had gone on. While people in England – Muggle and wizard alike – huddled together in fear, this collection of villages and the whole wide world had gone on. Minerva gripped the edge of the window, cool under her fingers, and laughed into the open air, down into the people sitting on the patio, and out into the sea.

***

She spent the next day in magnificent laziness. She slept in until well past nine and ate a sugary breakfast pastry on the patio while enjoying a cappuccino. She had never had one before, the foam alternately vexing and delighting her as it constantly clung to her upper lip when she drank.

The beach was cool, but not quite cold – at least not to her Scottish blood – and so she walked along it in quiet solitude. It was refreshing to walk along an expanse with no one demanding attention. No colleagues asking for spare quills and parchments, no students asking about assignments, no Quidditch to worry about (though she did think Gryffindor looked good for the Cup this year). She thought of those she lost in the recent battles. Frank and Alice Longbottom were in her thoughts more than the Potters, she found, though she worried immensely over little Harry living with the dreadful Muggles. No, she thought of Frank and Alice – such bright, engaging youngsters, with a baby of their own. Perhaps it was impolite to think, but she rather found that the Potters had a less bitter fate than two left alive. She had visited them but once, with Dumbledore, and neither had recognized the two of them, despite the fact that they had worked together in the Order of the Phoenix for several years. They didn’t know Neville, either, a sweet wee chap with a round face and kind eyes.

When all of these thoughts became too much, she wandered past the perimeter of the hotel. A few shops were huddled in its shadow, hiding in plain sight, as magical establishments ought to do. Muggles strode past and didn’t spare the small enclave a glance.

The first shop she saw was a bookstore, a welcome sight, even if every book was in Italian. Of course, they weren’t, she saw as soon as she stepped in. The place was tipping with books in every language, of every type. Huge, leather-bound volumes mingled with slim hardcovers. A magnificent glass case with brass fittings stretched along one back wall, and at first glance, Minerva saw it was filled with treasures. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was a first edition of <i>Hogwarts, a History</i>. Her mouth watered. She went to the case and gazed at the bejeweled, bedecked, and bedazzling contents inside. There was a slim volume of <i>Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them</i>, with a card in front proclaiming in both English and Italian that it was signed by the author. An illuminated copy of <i>Tales of Beedle the Bard</i> sat in one corner. There were Italian classics, as well, some of which she had read in translation.

A stout witch with silky, thick gray hair came up behind her and greeted her in Italian. She said something else, too, but Minerva had no idea what it was. Could have been an offer for help, could have been a curse. She merely smiled in a way she hoped conveyed both intelligence and cluelessness.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ the witch said, waving a hand. ‘English?’

‘Yes,’ Minerva said.

‘Oh, very nice. Welcome, welcome. Is anything I can get for you?’

‘No, thank you. I’m just looking.’

‘Are you staying at Vincenzo’s?’

‘Yes. It’s lovely!’

‘It is. We have Muggle books, too. Good to read on the beach, you know?’

‘Is that so?’

‘Si, si, signora. Here, I show you.’

She tottered to a few shelves in the back, and scanned the shelves. She looked at the books, tapped one or two, and looked back at Minerva. She narrowed her eyes in appraisal.

‘This one,’ she said, pulling a fat paperback from the shelf.

Minerva had a small flash of memory. Her father was a Muggle preacher, and he kept books around the house, all the greats of English literature. It was a conservative collection, with <i>Wuthering Heights</i> the most daring of the lot. Still, she had read every one, plus of course the Christian Bible. Muggle books were as varied as wizard books, no more or less suitable for a beach than anything else, but she knew she couldn’t convey that to this woman who was trying to help her.

‘Very popular,’ the witch said. ‘But I no see why someone would want to interview a vampire.’

Minerva chuckled. ‘They aren’t like our vampires. No, Muggles find these vampires very—’ She waggled her eyebrows and smiled.

‘No!’ the old witch said, scandalized.

‘Si, I’m afraid.’ She remembered <i>Dracula</i> from her father’s collection. Sadly, she knew about real vampires by the time she got around to reading it, thus dulling the shine a bit, but it was entertaining enough. Perhaps this one would be as well. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘I hope you like,’ the woman said.

‘I’m sure I will.’

Of course, she had plenty of other things to read. <i>Transfiguration Quarterly</i>. <i>Teaching Transfiguration.</i> But wouldn’t reading those defeat the purpose of a holiday?

She paid the woman and left with her book in her handbag.

***

Later that afternoon, while enjoying a cup of tea by the window and thoroughly absorbed in <i>Interview With the Vampire</i>, there was a knock on the door. She jumped about a foot into the air from the ridiculously plush and utterly perfect reading chair. This jostled the table and sacrificed some tea.

‘Damn.’

She sopped it up with a napkin and hurried to the door. Already flustered, she nearly fainted when she saw Antonio standing there bearing a small, golden envelope on a silver tray. He wore a similar outfit as he had before, this time with a light gray waistcoat and trousers and a deeply purple necktie. He smiled at her impishly.

‘A note from Vincenzo,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Antonio,’ she replied, accepting the note as he handed it to her.

He winked, tucked the tray under his arm, and sauntered off down the hall. She watched him walk away, dazed over the view, and caught herself just short of drooling. With a small shake of the head, clearing away the unfamiliar cobwebs of lust, she opened Vincenzo’s note to reveal a cream-coloured note card with handwriting that could only be described as ‘rococo.’ The ink was bright orange.

<i>Dear Minerva,

Please do me the honor of dining with me tonight. I must hear all about your work at Hogwarts, Albus’s latest adventures, and England in general.

Respectfully yours,

Vincenzo</i>

Goodness gracious. A private dinner invitation from the proprietor. She stood in the middle of her room, one hand on her hip, the other holding the card as she fanned herself with it. Of course she would join him, but the peril of foreign social <i>faux pas</i> loomed.

She had brought her two nicest robes, one a very solemn frock of gray silk, and the other a lavender linen. Neither seemed particularly suitable for any of this, but alas, she had gone on a whim and one made do when one made rash decisions.

She settled for the gray.

***

Her excursion felt all the more real and daring once she entered the hotel’s restaurant. Like everything else, it twinkled with the splendor of a bygone era. The ceilings were high and the dining area cavernous, each table outfitted with a crisp white cloth and a candle. Silver gleamed next to pristine plates.

She went up to the wooden podium where a hostess stood, a pleasantly neutral look on her face, as if her life’s purpose was to wait for people to ask her questions.

‘Good evening,’ Minerva said, chancing English.

‘Good evening. How might I help?’

‘My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I think—’

‘Oh, yes,’ the hostess said, nodding. ‘Yes, please, follow me. You’ll be joining Vincenzo.’

She led Minerva to a secluded corner and a massive, plush booth half-hidden by plants. A stocky, rugged-looking fellow sat with an arrestingly beautiful woman.

He saw her before the hostess had a chance to introduce her, rising from the booth and greeting her with open arms. He kissed her on each cheek, a custom she found most distressing, though of course she said nothing.

He fired off something pleasant and grateful to the hostess, though Minerva understood nothing apart from ‘grazi’ and ‘vino.’

‘Minerva, it is so good to meet you,’ he said, ushering her to the booth. She took a seat on one end of the U-shaped banquette, with the woman sitting in the middle and Vincenzo across from her. ‘This is my niece, Valentina di Coco.’

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ she said, shocking Minerva with a broad American accent. She held out her hand for a handshake and gripped Minerva’s so tight that she felt the bones rub together.

‘Lovely to meet you, as well,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me. But – I’m not encroaching on a family visit, I hope?’

‘Not at all,’ Vincenzo said, waving the idea away. ‘Valentina has been here for a month already. We had plenty of time to catch up.’

‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

‘Of course!’ he boomed.

A waiter in crisp, black trousers and a white shirt came to their table bearing two bottles of wine. He set down three glasses and uncorked one bottle, pouring generous portions into each.

‘Grazi, Pietro,’ Vincenzo said. ‘This is a fine, fine vintage to get us started here. A little sweet, just like my niece.’

‘Only a little?’ she said, and laughed.

In spite of her nervousness, Minerva laughed too.

‘You came all the way from America, I take it?’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Chicago, to be exact. Right in the middle, and waist-deep in snow. So I said, this is no way to spend the holidays! I figured it was time for a visit to my dear uncle.’

‘How lovely!’

‘It has been. I haven’t made it over in a while. Had to take a Muggle airplane. You ever been on one of those contraptions?’

‘Can’t say as I have.’

‘Merlin’s beard! I thought I was gonna end up swimming over here. I packed some gillyweed just in case of a water landing.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Didn’t need it, luckily. I saved it for the beach. How was your journey? Did you use the Floo?’

‘Yes,’ she said, feeling rather shabby compared to a cross-continental airplane ride. ‘It was – well, it was a Floo journey.’

‘Never got used to those, myself,’ Vincenzo said. ‘Makes me queasy.’

‘Quite.’

‘Say, Uncle Vinny tells me you’re a professor! Do they have a magical college in England?’

‘Well, no. I’m not that kind of a professor. That’s how we address teachers. I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts.’

‘Well, that’s neat, anyway! I’m partial to Ilvermorny, myself, of course.’

Minerva smiled. ‘A fine school.’

‘Sure is! But I hear great things about Hogwarts. At least – well – at least it didn’t go the way of Durmstrang, if you know what I mean.’

Minerva grimaced. She hated thinking of the dark influences that had infiltrated Durmstrang, the poor children suffering for adult misguidance. ‘We tried to keep things as normal as we could for the children.’

‘Let’s not speak of such unpleasant things, Valentina.’

‘I’m sorry. There I go with my foot square in my mouth.’

‘Not at all. It was – well, it was a trying time for England.’

‘Hey, our whole magical government got infiltrated by Grindelwald in the fifties,’ she said. ‘It’s just – how it is. Some go dark.’

Luckily, a waiter came bearing a tray loaded with food. Calamari, meat, fruit, cheese, bread – it was a meal unto itself, and Minerva rather withered at the sight of it.

‘Bellissimo, bellissimo,’ Vincenzo said. He loaded a small plate with paper-thin meat, golden calamari, and glistening fruit, with a massive chunk of bread and cheese. ‘Okay, here we have the prosciutto—’ he indicated the ribbons of meat, ‘some melon, and bread. Oh, and of course, a little provolone to go with it.’

She accepted this with thanks, and decided she would enjoy it. It did look rather good, if far too bright and foreign. The melon was bright orange, nearly the same shade as the meat. The cheese was shiny and soft, quite unlike the dense country cheese she was used to. Her reservations disappeared as soon as she took a bite. The whole lot was fresh and bursting with flavor and texture, so unlike English food, which all had a vaguely starchy softness to it.

‘You like?’

‘Quite,’ she said through a mouthful of calamari. It was light and salty, fresh as the sea itself.

‘English food is – well, different, isn’t it?’

She chuckled. ‘Very different.’

‘We have good Italian food in Chicago, obviously,’ Valentina said. ‘But of course, I like it better over here.’

Minerva sipped some wine, and it was unlike anything she had ever had before. Even knowing nothing about wine, she knew it was probably the best she would ever drink. ‘My word, that is delicious.’

‘I’m glad you like!’ Vincenzo declared. ‘It’s one of my favorites.’

She barely had time to register the first course before two waiters came by with loaded trays. This time, they brought pastas glistening with olive oil and cream sauces, vegetables roasted with fragrant herbs and garlic, and a whole roasted chicken with the smell of lemon and garlic wafting off it.

She allowed Vincenzo to instruct the waiter in piling a plate high for her with a sample of every delightful offering. He sprinkled the whole lot with a fine dust of Parmesan cheese. Minerva wasn’t particularly one to shun food, but this was truly exceeding the limits of her usual eating habits.

Companionable silence fell on the table as they demolished the mountain of food and made their way through the wine. She ate and drank more than she had previously thought possible. Her dining companions seemed born to it, which was no surprise. Vincenzo clearly loved his food, and it showed in his stocky frame. Similarly, Valentina was a curvaceous type, the sort Minerva associated with well-fed Americans. She filled out her robes with an hourglass figure.

As the entrée plates were cleared, one of the waiters brought even more wine, this a cold, white wine with condensation dripping down the side in the dining room’s comfortable warmth. Moments later, another waiter brought three small dishes filled with tiramisu. She thought she might cry.

Apparently, her distress showed on her face. Valentina leaned over and whispered, ‘It’s a lot, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, quite.’

‘You won’t regret it.’

‘I suppose not,’ she said with a warbling laugh. Three glasses of wine was rather a lot for her.

Valentina was right, though. One bite of that tiramisu, and any reservations disappeared.

‘Of course, you’ll join us for the New Year’s Eve ball, won’t you?’ Vincenzo asked.

‘Well, nearly everyone I have met so far has expressed their appreciation for it, so I reckon I couldn’t possibly miss it,’ she said.

‘You are correct! And please, I think I can speak for my niece when I say – you must come as our personal guest.’

‘Oh, Vincenzo, really – I’m so grateful, but that is too much.’

‘Nonsense. For an esteemed colleague of Dumbledore’s? It is hardly too much. Consider yourself an ambassador for Hogwarts. Ambassadors need to rub elbows, do they not?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Come on, Minerva. You have to, otherwise I’ll be there listening to all my uncle’s stories that I’ve heard a hundred times while he reminisces with his old buddies.’ Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief, a kind of challenge to follow her down the rabbit hole.

‘Well, all right. I suppose. I just don’t want to be a bother.’

‘Hardly! It’s settled, then.’

‘Sure, it’s settled.’ She took a long draw of wine and tried to fortify herself.

***

The next days passed as if in a dream. She read <i>Interview With the Vampire</i> straight through, and found some older copies of <i>The Daily Prophet</i> and <i>Witch Weekly</i> in the lobby. She read those, too.

Walks on the beach, affable small talk with Antonio, sumptuous dinners – was she even Minerva McGonagall anymore? She could hardly believe that her room would be waiting for her back at Hogwarts, that students would return to the place and need her help, that in another week, it would be hurried cups of tea in the staff room with Poppy.

Valentina joined her one afternoon as she sat on the patio outside the restaurant, a cappuccino in front of her, working on the crossword from <i>Witch Weekly</i>.

‘Mind if I join you?’ She stood in front of Minerva, wearing sunglasses as large as her face, the afternoon sun shining off her glossy, black hair. She wore robes of deep scarlet, setting off the olive tones in her skin, just this side of clashing.

‘Please, of course,’ Minvera said, dusting biscotti crumbs off her own utilitarian garb.

She leaned back in the chair, turned her face up to the sun. ‘So lovely here. It won’t warm up for ages in Chicago.’

‘Likewise in Scotland, I’m afraid.’

‘I would just move here, but . . .’ she trailed off, her eyes fixed on something in the distance.

‘Imagine if this got quotidian,’ Minerva offered, gesturing to the rest of the patio and the beach, dotted with brightly clad witches and wizards.

‘So true,’ Valentina said. ‘You’re a smart cookie, Minerva.’

She had no response other than to blush.

‘Well, the ball is tomorrow,’ Valentina said. ‘Excited?’

‘Yes, quite. I haven’t been to a fancy dress do in a goblin’s age.’

‘You teachers don’t live it up in your Scottish castle?’

Minerva chuckled. ‘Not quite. Especially not lately.’

Valentina’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyebrows raised. ‘Merlin’s beard! I am so sorry. I didn’t think—’

‘It’s all right. It was – it was an ordeal. A war, you know? A proper war, with families torn apart and people killed and buildings destroyed. But, it’s over now, and we can’t all just skirt about it the rest of our days,’ she said – the most she had ever said on the topic.

‘I guess not.’ She smoothed her hair, examined the ends of it with furrowed brows. The gesture might have looked insipid or vacuous on another, but for Valentina it looked like a genuine expression of deep thought.

‘Anyway, what ought I to expect from this famous ball? Heaps of food, I imagine.’

Valentina perked up. ‘You don’t know the half of it. And music – there are several bands on the roster. Expect to dance,’ she warned.

‘Goodness me. I can waltz a bit.’

Valentina laughed and rose from her seat. She held out her hand, and Minerva took it, to her own utter surprise. She twirled Minerva around, right there on the patio, pushed her back in a deep dip, and let her go with a flourish. Good-natured applause arose from the tables around them, and Minerva pressed her hands to her cheeks.

‘Goodness me.’

‘Come on, I’ll show you a few things,’ Valentina said, tugging on Minerva’s hand once more.

She was so close to protesting, but Valentina’s steady gaze challenged her to do the opposite of what Professor McGonagall might do, and only what Minerva wanted. She gathered her things and followed Valentina.

‘Ladies,’ Antonio said as they strode through the lobby.

‘I’m gonna teach Minerva how to dance,’ Valentina declared.

He laughed, caught Valentina by her voluptuous waist, and did a quick little two-step, his shoes clicking on the polished floor. ‘Buono, buono.’

They went to the highest floor of the hotel, and down the corridor. At the very end, Valentina stopped, opened the door. Minerva found herself in a gorgeous suite, huge, with enough room and seating for a dozen people. A couch, a settee, chairs – it was a room for entertaining. A record player sat on a sturdy wooden table.

Valentina first went to a brass cart, heaped with bottles and glasses, and poured two nips of liqueur into tiny glasses. She handed one to Minerva and sipped the other. It was the same hazelnut concoction that she had in the first little tavern when she arrived.

‘That is good,’ she said, sipping her own.

‘Isn’t it delightful?’

Warmth spread to her fingertips, a summertime languor, and she smiled.

Valentina kicked off her shoes and went to the stack of records by the record player. ‘Uncle Vinny likes his big band tunes,’ she said. ‘Let’s start with a little foxtrot.’

She put on a rousing number and tapped her foot while she sipped her drink, getting a feel for the beat.

Minerva kept drinking, rather faster than she would have liked.

Valentina had begun to swing her hips a little, nod her head in time with the beat. She smiled a secretive sort of smile, as though the music was whispering something slightly naughty into her ear.

‘You ready?’ she asked, finishing her drink and trotting over to Minerva.

‘No!’

‘Good.’

Minerva had just enough time to finish her drink before Valentina had taken her by the hand, with her other arm around her waist.

‘Okay, your right foot goes there, left foot goes there, and follow my lead.’

Minerva placed her feet in position. Valentina hiked up her robes to the knees, exposing smooth, muscular calves. She began moving, on time with the beat, her feet and legs a dizzying whir. But Minerva was a quick enough study, and she mimicked the movements easily enough, her feet moving in tandem with Valentina’s.

‘There we go! Hey!’

The song ended, but the next was just as spirited. The dance continued. Minerva hadn’t been accustomed to this at all. She had walked plenty, had run a couple times during the war, but dancing was a long-forgotten thing that she had never much gotten accustomed to anyway, on account of her minister father. While he wasn’t as hard lined as some, dancing was still not on the common roster of activities in the McGonagall family.

Her legs strained, but she kept on, despite feeling that slight pressure in her knees that reminded her she was getting older every day.

The song ended, and Valentina let out a happy sigh. She clapped a little in excitement.

‘Not bad, not bad,’ she said.

‘My word,’ Minerva replied. ‘I’m surprised I stayed upright.’

‘You did fine. Luckily, everyone will be drinking heavily, so if you trip, they’ll scarcely notice.’

‘A comforting thought,’ Minerva said with a breath of a chuckle.

A slower song was playing, a melancholy ditty with plenty of clarinet. She thought, suddenly, of Dougal. It must have showed on her face, because Valentina cocked her head.

‘It’s nothing. Just – a man I cared for was killed. I don’t know why I thought of him just now.’

‘That’s not nothing,’ Valentina said.

‘Well, no, I suppose it isn’t.’

‘But it’s almost a new year. A new beginning. Whoever he was, I bet he wouldn’t want you to be sad.’

‘No, certainly not,’ Minerva said, remembering his warm smile, his kindness to beast and man alike.

The song ended and a happy tune began again, but neither of them moved. Minerva sensed Valentina was lost in her own thoughts.

‘But your right,’ Minerva said, by way of encouragement, ‘it’s a new year.’

‘Of course!’ Valentina said, brightening. ‘Yes, it certainly is. Nineteen eight-two! Can you believe it?’

***

The day of the ball dawned so fine, Minerva was sure that someone at the hotel had been dabbling in forbidden weather magic. But no, it was just a lovely winter day. The sun shone high and bright, with only a few fluffy clouds languidly floating across the sky. It wasn’t warm, but it hardly had the icy Scottish bite she was so used to. All in all, it was a grand day to celebrate.

She had developed a lazy sort of routine, involving coffee, pastries, more coffee, pasta – mostly, revolving around food and walks on the beach. She visited the bookshop again and found another paperback to read.

The ball would start at seven, so she waited until five to get ready. It would hardly take her two hours, except that she wished to wash her hair, and that would be a task in the tiny bathroom. The day carried a long-forgotten feeling of anticipation. She remembered school dances or holiday gatherings, frocks new and not to be touched until the appointed hour, food not to be eaten until Mum or another authority decreed it, jovial scenes of reunion or meeting.

She wore her lavender robes, which she had always thought so lovely, but compared to the fashion parade she’d seen at the hotel thus far now seemed dowdy beyond reckoning. Still, they were good quality from Madam Malkin’s, and made of a cotton-silk blend that shone just enough under the right light. She packed her one nice brooch, a spray of amethyst set in gold, rather larger than she liked, but her mother was a bit more deft at accessorizing than she and she had gotten it from her. It blended with the more muted lavender of the frock itself, and she liked the almost-monochrome scheme.

As she was about to leave, close to seven, there was a knock at the door. Surprised and curious, she answered it to find Valentina standing in the corridor.

She was utterly resplendent. Her thick, dark hair had been piled high atop her head in an intricate mass of broad curls. A tiny pointed hat rested to one side at a jaunty angle, with what appeared to be a small phoenix feather attached to it. The hat and robes were both deep, rich sapphire, and the defiant flame of the phoenix feather poked out in heated impudence. And those robes! Pure taffeta, miles of it, wrapped around her with winged sleeves and a bow on the back with a small train that barely graced the floor.

‘Good lord, you look like – I – I can’t even say,’ Minerva stammered.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Valentina said, lips quirked into a half-smile.

‘Oh yes, of course! Dear me, of course. You look lovely,’ was the best she could do.

‘Thanks. You do too.’

Minerva waved her hand but said nothing.

‘Well, hey, I thought we could be fashionably late.’ From a small handbag, surely enchanted, she procured a bottle of liqueur and two tiny glasses.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been fashionably late before. Do come in,’ Minerva said, stepping aside.

Valentina swept into the room in a rustle of taffeta.

A thrill of daring rolled through Minerva. It was true – she had never been fashionably late before, and it seemed as ostentatious as showing up to the staff table in a miniskirt.

‘You’ll like this,’ she said, setting the glasses down and pouring out generous measures of the liqueur. ‘It won’t get you drunk, exactly, just warm you up.’

Minerva accepted a glass, and the scent of it wafted over – vanilla and cinnamon gently heated on a back burner. She took a sip and it rolled around on her tongue with smooth confidence. A feeling of warm jocularity settled in her arms and the back of her legs.

‘Happy New Year,’ Valentina said.

‘Same to you.’

They clinked glasses.

‘You don’t need to help your uncle?’ she asked Valentina.

‘Are you kidding? He’s got half the town helping out, and the other half attending. He has it under control. He lives for these kinds of things.’

‘Oh good.’

‘I hope you don’t mind being stuck with me?’

‘Stuck with you? Hardly! No, otherwise I’d be there now, probably the only one, standing against the wall and being mistaken for a caterer or something. I’m glad for the company.’

Valentina laughed, finished her drink, and poured another. ‘Well, all right then!’

At some magic moment, Valentina perked up like a dog hearing a distant whistle. The moment of ‘fashionably late’ had arrived. The corridors were empty as they walked to their destination, and something about it led Minerva to stray to the side and run her fingers along the potted plants or the flocked wallpaper. Maybe it was the liqueur.

Valentina laughed at her, not unkindly, and squeezed her shoulder as they waited for the lift. ‘I think you might be tipsy.’

‘Possible! Even probable.’

‘Me too,’ she said once they were in the lift, confiding this like a great secret.

Nothing could have prepared Minerva for the scene that greeted them when they reached the mezzanine. The walkway between the polished brass railing and the open ballroom doors was crammed with people in every colour robe, every type of accessory. They laughed and stood together in pairs or small groups, a wild and free assortment of people spanning half a century in age.

Inside the ballroom, golden streamers hung in midair. The chandeliers blazed with crystal. Waiters circulated among the edges of the room with trays of finger foods and tiny sweets, teetering glasses of wine and champagne. The middle of the floor was crammed with couples dancing to rousing big band standards. She hadn’t seen this many people gathered in celebration in years, perhaps decades.

‘My word.’

‘You can see why it’s a local legend. Nothing this glamorous happens here for the other three hundred sixty-four days of the year.’

‘I daresay, this is glamorous enough to make up for it.’

Vincenzo spotted them and bounded over. He hugged them in turn, kissed them both on the cheeks. ‘Welcome, my dears, welcome!’

‘Thank you so much,’ Minerva managed to say, still quite overwhelmed with the scene before her.

‘You’ve outdone yourself, Uncle Vinny.’

‘Is nothing!’ Vincenzo protested. ‘You need food and something to drink.’

He waved a waiter over, and before they knew it, they had small plates piled high with delicacies in one hand and flutes of dancing champagne in the other.

‘This is truly excellent champagne,’ she said, taking a sip. It was dry, the bubbles tickling her throat.

‘Is prosecco,’ he corrected her. ‘I know the vintner. His vines are the best in Italy. Please, you must enjoy yourselves. We have music and dancing, plenty of food, plenty of prosecco and moscato. I won’t let you leave until you’re full and drunk!’

‘We wouldn’t dream of it, Uncle Vinny. I know the house rules.’

He spotted another acquaintance somewhere in the distance, and waved. He left them with another kiss on the cheek and another waiter to pile their plates with food.

‘Come on, let’s go to the balcony.’

Valentina led her along the outskirts of the dance floor, saying the occasional hello to people she knew. Finally, they reached the balcony, which was no less resplendent and glittering. They found a stone bench and enjoyed their second plate of tarts, bruscetta on crusty bread, and glistening fruit.

‘I don’t know what prosecco is,’ Minerva declared after her second glass, ‘but I like it.’

‘I think it likes you, too,’ Valentina said.

‘We should dance,’ Minerva declared, surprising herself so much that she hiccoughed.

‘Absolutely,’ Valentina agreed without a thought. She put their plates and glasses on a tray and they immediately vanished with a <i> _pop </i>._

The dance floor was packed, for which Minerva was grateful, for the reality of what she had proposed had sunk in. No one would see her if she made a fool of herself.

She scanned the crowd for eligible bachelors. ‘Who should our unsuspecting victims be?’

Valentina took her hand and she allowed herself to be twirled. ‘We don’t need them.’

Minerva giggled in a fashion more becoming a third year girl’s first trip to Madame Puddifoot’s. ‘Well, all right.’

Valentina took the lead and held her fast in strong, solid arms. It might have been like dancing with a man, except for the soft curves under the taffeta of her dress, the scent of floral perfume wafting off her in tantalizing waves, long varnished fingernails resting against Minerva’s hand.

They found the beat and swirled in time with the music, feet in tandem, back-and-forth, a little waltz. The music was jaunty, a perfect prelude to a new year. Minerva laughed for no reason other than she wasn’t in cold stone corridors or modest relatives’ homes. She was, for a moment, no more or less than Minerva McGonagall – no one’s teacher, mentor, employee, Quidditch overseer, sister – she was herself, someone who liked prosecco and fresh fruit.

They managed two more songs, one of them a rousing foxtrot like Valentina had showed her only days before. Had it only been days? Minerva had become an entirely different person in the last hour, never mind days.

They were breathless and covered in a thin patina of sweat, and Valentina pulled her back to the balcony. The air was cool, a breeze rolling off the Mediterranean in fragrant puffs. The moon was bright and creeping up the sky. Everything was cast in shades of blue: the deep blue sea, the blue-black sky, the eerie cornflower blue light. Valentina’s blue dress.

‘Let’s cool off, walk on the beach,’ Valentina said.

She led Minerva through the crowd on the balcony to a narrow, precarious stone staircase that led down the side of the building in a graceful Victorian swoop. They were on the little patio outside the restaurant now. Party sounds drifted as if from far away, but where they were, it was nearly silent except for the waves and the soft rustling sand and sea grass.

‘What a lovely night!’

‘Isn’t it?’ Valentina said. She kicked off her shoes and set them delicately against the building. She sank into the sand as she walked off the patio.

‘Your robes!’

‘They’ll survive.’

Minerva hesitated. What if she ruined her best robes? What if her shoes got stolen? What if – what if she stopped giving a house elf’s fart about these kind of worries and just did something for once? She unbuckled her heavy, practical shoes and toed them off, set them next to Valentina’s.

They set off like scarves lost in the breeze, zig-zagging this way and that across the sand. Land seemed to recede, as though this thin strand were breaking off and into the sea. She followed Valentina to the water’s edge, the sand cold and wet under her feet. They gathered their skirts in their hands, left exposed feet and ankles. Water rushed up, nearly to the hem where Minerva held hers, and a thrill of danger took hold.

‘What do you suppose they see?’ Valentina gestured toward the small towns that dotted and twinkled the moonlit foothills. ‘The no-majs? The Muggles, you call them, I guess.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. They see – they see what they want to see. Some probably see a run-down hotel. Others don’t see it at all.’

‘So strange,’ Valentina said. ‘Not to see something that’s plainly there. Or is it? Is it really there?’

‘Muggles aren’t the only ones thus afflicted,’ Minerva said.

‘God, you’re so right.’

From a distant small town, fireworks started, and the party at Vincenzo’s reached a fever pitch. A countdown began, mingled English and Italian.

‘It’s the New Year.’

<i> _‘Four, three, two—’_ </i>

Valentina pulled Minerva to her, pulled her close, and before Minerva knew what was happening, she was being kissed. It was sloppy and hesitant at first, almost a joke. But Valentina pulled back a fraction of an inch and kissed her in earnest, then. She kissed with her whole mouth, lips and tongue and teeth, her hands at Minerva’s waist and holding on for dear life.

She’d never experienced anything like this, nothing even close. She’d never considered it before. As she eased into it, however, her brain processed the sensations. Valentina’s lips were soft, as was her face. Everything about her was soft. She was physically the opposite of the rough farm boys Minerva had kissed before, whiskery and muscled, smelling of sweat and hay. It awoke the curious, intellectual part of her mind as much as anything, as she catalogued those differences.

But the kiss had to end sometime, and it did, though with an amiable parting.

‘I am so sorry,’ Valentina whispered.

‘Whatever for?’

‘That was—’ She shook her head. ‘I’m just sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Minerva couldn’t put it into words, didn’t bother to try, but oh it was enough indeed.

‘You mean it?’

‘Do I strike you as the type to say things I don’t mean?’

Valentina laughed, low and sultry as the wind. ‘Not at all.’

They walked aimlessly along the beach for a while. Nothing was said, but they walked away from the building and the party and all those beautiful, glittering people. Valentina led her to a small alcove of rock, and even in the moonlight, she saw how rough it was. Volcanic rock, perhaps? Or simply pock-marked and nearly destroyed by wind?

Minerva withdrew her wand and conjured a blanket. They toppled onto it, tired but happy. Minerva’s mind swam and she wondered what she’d think of all this when the booze wore off. But she decided, then and there, that she would feel good about it.

‘I was with someone back in Chicago, and she left. That, plus the winter – I couldn’t take it. I had to come over here.’

‘My ex-fiance died in the war. Death Eaters killed him. We had barely spoken since we were young, but – that kind of thing never leaves you.’

Valentina nodded.

‘I don’t have any words of wisdom beyond that.’

‘I don’t need any.’ Valentina took her hand – comforting, friendly, and barely this side of sexual as their warm palms slid together. Would this go further? Already her exuberant drunk had worn off; she began to get tired and could feel a small pressure behind her eyes.

The moon hung high in the sky still, though just past the apex. Far off as they were, sounds of reveling reached their ears clearly enough.

‘I guess we better get back,’ Valentina sighed.

‘I reckon we must. I’m already beginning to feel the after-effects.’

‘I’d think a Scottish lass would have a stronger liver.’

‘It’s quite untested, comparatively speaking,’ Minerva said.

They walked back across the sand, cold now in the chill of the evening. Minerva hardly minded, heated as she was from alcohol and her most unusual New Year’s kiss.

They paused on the patio and steadied themselves on crumbling stone walls to put their shoes on, sneaking glances and embarrassed laughter as they had trouble with aim or staying upright. Finally, they managed and stared up at the party still in full swing.

‘What time could it possibly be?’

‘One? Two?’ Valentina shrugged.

Minerva found herself reticent to walk through the party. All those people! Drunk, mischievous, hopeful – she couldn’t count herself among them. She wanted to say good night to Vincenzo and then go to her room, let down her hair, and await her hangover.

It wasn’t easy navigating their way through the drunk, Dionysian crowd, but they managed it and Minerva found herself on the other side of the huge ballroom quick enough that it called to mind the car ride over with Antonio.

Vincenzo was just outside the door, holding court among a fashionable gray-haired witch and two tall wizards. He stopped in the middle of an evidently amusing story to gesture them over.

‘Minerva! Valentina!’

Valentina went, and pulled her uncle close to her side while Minerva stood slightly off, as close to the staircase as she could get.

‘I was just telling my friends about a redecorating adventure I once had—’

‘The famous New York trip?’

‘Si! Si!’

‘Well, I would love to hear it a tenth time, Uncle, but I am exhausted.’ She kissed his temple. ‘Rain check?’

‘Exhausted? It’s only just past two! Minerva, please tell me you aren’t exhausted too?’

‘I fear I am, but I have had an enchanting evening. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me.’

‘Not at all, not at all. I am honored to have a distinguished member of our international brethren.’ He pulled her close, kissed both her cheeks.

They bade goodnight to him and his companions as he launched into the New York story, whatever that was. It was surely amusing, but aches and pains had set in.

The wait at the lift passed in near-awkward silence. Minerva’s head swam; Valentina tottered on her high heels. Finally, the brass cage rattled and the life arrived.

‘Look, I—” Valentina started.

‘No, don’t. I – I had a lovely time. I enjoyed all of it.’

‘Whew.’

The lift stopped at Minerva’s floor and she paused for a look at Valentina. Even wilting, she looked rather lovely.

‘Happy New Year, Valentina.’

‘Happy New Year, Minerva.’

The lift closed and Minerva found herself quite alone for the long walk down the corridor.

***

She stayed two more days at the hotel, two more lazy days of cool sunshine, coffee, biscuits, and – to her great surprise – Valentina. They drifted along amicably, easily, in a way Minerva had never drifted with anyone. She didn’t drift at all, and prided herself on being steadfast as Hogwarts itself.

The two days on holiday were like scenes from someone else’s life. They walked along the beach and poked around the little shops. Minerva found a nice pair of Merino wool socks for Dumbledore as a thank-you gift. Valentina stocked up on treats and things to take back to Chicago. They even went to see a film at a Muggle cinema.

All the while, the New Year’s kiss was not spoken of, nor did others arise. If Valentina wanted more, she said nothing, and Minerva hovered over the idea herself, sometimes coming down on the side of ‘yes’ and other times ‘no.’

Of course, the morning of her departure came and Valentina was there to see her off.

‘You ought to come to Chicago,’ she proclaimed. ‘Or I could come to Scotland and see you.’

‘I – yes – yes, perhaps that would work out,’ Minerva hedged.

‘Never going to happen, is it?’

‘Come now, we can’t say that, can we?’

‘We don’t have to.’ Valentina plopped down in the reading chair.

Minerva knelt in front of her, put her hand over Valentina’s. ‘I can’t pretend to know what to make of all this and of – of what happened the other night. But I do know that I don’t regret it. I simply can’t say if it’s something I want, long-term.’

‘I really shouldn’t have done it.’

‘I don’t know about that. But you’re always welcome to visit me. I have had a splendid time here with you. I really have.’

Valentina tried to brighten. ‘Thanks, Minerva. I really had a great time too. Maybe one last walk on the beach?’

They headed out into a foggy day, mist rolling inland from some unknown seaward destination. They talked amiably about silly things, about people’s outfits or books they had read, hardly the sort of conversation Minerva was accustomed to. It was rather nice to talk to someone who wasn’t a teacher.

They ran out of beach eventually and parted on the patio, Valentina going in for a cappuccino and Minerva heading up the stairs.

She gathered her things, put the shrinking charm on her trunk, and dropped it into her bag. In the lobby, Vincenzo stood by the bell desk and chatted with her while they waited for Antonio to bring the car round. He made no indication that he knew what had passed between her and Valentina, except to say he was pleased they had become friends.

Then Antonio was there, flirting, helping her into the car. She drove back to the tavern, reversed her Floo journey, and that was the end of her Italian holiday.

***

June 1997

It had taken her years to understand what a mistake she had made. It had taken a marriage and the loss of her husband to understand that what she felt in those few days was bigger than she had given it credit for. Elphinstone Urquart had been a most adequate husband, to be sure. He remembered birthdays and holidays; did something special for their anniversaries; kept the lawn outside their cottage neat.

But over the years, she often thought back to those unseasonably warm Italian nights and the cavalier way she had left Valentina. She had acted so stupid! Had acted as though it were some strange little fluke!

She never saw Valentina again, and by the time the second war had ended and British wizardry rebuilt once more, she couldn’t even imagine sending an owl. She had probably found a more suitable woman, less obtuse than Minerva, who appreciated her fully. That was what Minerva hoped for her, anyway.

The fact did remain, however, that Minerva needed a holiday. She went to a guesthouse in Brighton, owned by a stout little witch and known all over the country for its scones. She stayed the better part of a week and read a book on magical education administration. It was a tonic, in its own way, but at night the waves hearkened back to another time and another place, exotic fruits and a stolen kiss.


End file.
